


dear forgiveness

by homosexualitie



Series: it's alright my dear, this is a circular story [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, Good Morgana (Merlin), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Modern Era, Morgana redemption arc, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Reincarnation, a lot of talking but nothing getting done, there's a lot of healing and references to the bad things they did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosexualitie/pseuds/homosexualitie
Summary: There’s something in their voices, in the set of their faces. They’re both tired, Arthur thinks. Not in the way that he’s tired but like — well, like they’ve been on their feet for a thousand or so years. He remembers how his father’s shoulders bowed with age, how he slept more but kept getting more tired.Merlin and Morgana are the same, he thinks, only they still look almost the same. Almost, that is, because they both look — softer. Like the years are water and they’re rocks, shaped by time and pressure.---A non-linear story about how Merlin, Morgana, and Arthur find ways to forgive each other, even as Arthur keeps dying and Merlin and Morgana keep living. It isn't easy, but they're trying to work through it together.Featuring: relationship triangles, the power of true love, and a lot of pain
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: it's alright my dear, this is a circular story [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831063
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> To clarify, the child abuse mentioned is from Uther. There are references to him hitting Arthur and emotionally/verbally abusing Morgana. There is also a discussion of Arthur's issues with being in a relationship with another man. Both of these are relevant to the plot, so if it makes you uncomfortable, please don't read.
> 
> The title comes from "Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out" by Richard Siken

(okay, here we go.) 

Merlin has long since come to terms with the fact that he isn’t going to die any time soon. Gaius has passed, and most of the knights too. When he stops to consider it, he realizes that everyone who Arthur had chosen for his round table is gone. Except for Gwen, that is.

But Gwen is barely hanging on, and it’s only due to Merlin’s skill in medicine that she’s still here. He sits by her bedside with her son and waits. The son is Arthur’s, as far as the court knows. As far as Merlin knows, as well. He looks from his mother to Merlin, eyes wide.

“is it time?” He asks. He’s named for Arthur, which still makes Merlin feel a little shaky around him. There were whispers in the court, especially after magic was legalized, about reincarnation. Merlin’s done his best to dispel them, because he knows they’re not true. He had hoped, sure, but as Arthur’s son had grown up, it was clear that he shared most of his personality with his mother. Arthur is gone for good, Merlin is sure. 

And pretty soon, Gwen is gone too, passing peacefully one night with only her son by her side. Merlin prepares her body for the funeral and tries not to think about his own death. 

-

The funeral is a beautiful affair. Merlin almost doesn’t show, for fear of the stares he’d get. There are people there that are certain to remember the servant who used to serve the long-dead king. Or the court physician who looked too young to be anything more than an apprentice. 

He sits in the back. The knights all stand in front, next to Arthur’s son. Merlin thinks that he’s going to leave Camelot as soon as he can. As soon as the funeral is over, he decides, and starts planning out where he could go. 

He’s mapping out an escape route from the castle that avoids both Arthur’s son and George when the doors of the assembly hall swing open. Merlin turns, ready to dispel whatever situation arises, but then he sees _her_. 

That is, he sees _Morgana_ . Somehow she’s not dead. She, too, looks the same as she did that day at Camlann. Well, she does look a bit worse for wear. Her dress is ragged, her hair has grown out a little. But she looks the same _age_. 

He’s about to stand up and fight when he realizes that no one here recognizes her. The few people who were alive when she was at court are now too old to remember her face, and none of the knights have ever fought anyone like her. Magic has all but drained out of the kingdom, mostly preserved in medical traditions and rituals. Merlin still uses his magic, but its uses are few and far between lately. Medicine is his strong suit now, and he wonders if Morgana might be able to strike him down. If she’s been training this whole time, lying in wait, she will. 

But she doesn’t make a move, doesn’t say anything. She keeps her chin high and walks to the closest empty seat — next to Merlin. She doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t either. 

The service continues, and everyone tries to ignore the interruption. When they’re released, and the knights start to stand up, Morgana turns to look at him. She’s still so _proud_ , she’s still holding her chin high and keeping her face perfectly still. 

“Emrys,” she says. Her voice is rough, like she hasn’t said anything in a long time. Merlin knows his voice will sound the same, if he says anything. 

“Morgana,” he replies. It’s not an accusation, or a threat, just an acknowledgement. He can see her narrow her eyes, probably assessing if he’s going to attack. He’s doing the same thing, but it still sets him on edge. She’s a formidable threat, he _knows_ that. And she’s made even more threatening by the fact that she’s somehow _come back from the dead_. 

There are people — Arthur’s son, some of the maidservants close to Gwen — who are going up to see Gwen’s body. Morgana looks over, once, desperately, and Merlin feels a flash of pity. After all, she’s in the same boat as him. They’re more or less alone in the world. 

He offers his arm to escort her up, and to his surprise, she takes it. Together, they walk up to where Gwen is lying, peacefully. Morgana covers her face with her free hand. Merlin averts his eyes. 

When they leave the funeral, Morgana follows him up to his rooms, which are really Gaius’ old rooms, cleared out for him to keep his books and medical supplies. She watches as he packs a bag with clothes and bare essentials, saying nothing. 

For some reason, he wants to defend himself to her. “There’s nothing for me here,” he says. His voice breaks in the middle. He thinks of shields he could conjure up to keep himself safe. “Not anymore, at least.”

She doesn’t react, really, just says, “Can I come with you?”

Merlin drops the waterskin he’s holding. Morgana waves a hand and it floats up, back into his hand. She continues, “I don’t have anywhere to go either.”

He thinks about that. He thinks about Morgana, stumbling about somewhere, half-dead, with no army to lead, no cause to champion. 

He holds out his arm for her. She takes it again. They leave the castle as quickly as they can, managing to avoid everyone, even the patrolling knights just outside the castle walls. 

-

They don’t see each other for a few years after the funeral. Merlin finds a village to live in, out on the outskirts of Camelot. He parts ways with Morgana by an abandoned cabin she decides to make her home in. No druid camp would have her, she told him, because she reeked of death. 

Merlin wonders if _he_ reeks of death. Of Gwen’s death, and Leon’s, and even further back, Gaius’s death. Gwaine’s. He knows he’s haunted by Arthur’s — by the failure of his destiny, by the hole where a king should have been. But could the druids _see_ it on his face? On his skin?

Only when a few years have passed and Merlin needs to find a new place to live before people get suspicious do they see each other again. He stops by Morgana’s cabin, knocks lightly on the door.

She answers it warily, and only lets him in when he assures her he doesn’t have any weapons. 

“I came to say hello,” he says, and she looks strangely at him. He wonders if she’ll ever trust someone’s intentions — _his_ intentions — again. After all of the betrayal she suffered. 

He doesn’t blame her. He holds his hands out again, the universal signal, _I mean no harm_ , and steps inside. She takes a few steps back, almost as if she’s afraid of him. 

Morgana sighs. “Let’s not pretend like we care about each other,” she says, voice stiff. She’s standing ramrod straight, wearing what looks like a new dress, her hair perfectly straight. Merlin wonders if she’s uncomfortable, like that. Performing a role so clearly wrong for her. 

“So do you want me to leave, then?” He asks. She flinches. 

“Go ahead,” she says, but Merlin can tell there’s something else she wants to say. He doesn’t move. Finally, she asks, “Are you losing your magic, too?”

Merlin freezes. He knows what she’s talking about, the way that his magic has been, very slowly, losing its potency. Spells that used to come easily have started to feel heavy in his mouth. When he called down rain for the first time since Arthur’s death, it left a bad taste in his mouth, almost like blood. 

He nods once. Morgana catches his eye. “Do you think we’re going to die?” She says. She sounds younger than he’s ever heard her, and he can’t tell if she’s scared or relieved. 

“Do you?”

She glares. “I asked first.”

It strikes Merlin how much she reminds him of Arthur. They don’t look similar, not by a long shot, but the set of her jaw, the way she glares at him, the way she expresses distrust, it’s all too familiar for Merlin. 

He nods. “I don’t,” he says. She sighs heavily. 

“Anything else to say?” she asks with an arched eyebrow. Merlin realizes, dully, that she is asking him to apologize. It makes him feel— well, he’s not sure how it makes him feel. He thinks _angry_ , before he thinks _sad_ , and then _scared_. The last one mainly because it means the world is shifting. He’s losing the things he was certain of. 

“Give me a minute,” he says. And she really does, she sits back and watches, with those eyes that look far too much like Arthur’s, and waits. It’s longer than a minute, he’s sure, but eventually he says, “I’m really sorry. For— for poisoning you. For lying to you about the magic. For killing you.”

She laughs at the last one. “Sorry it didn’t work out,” she says. It’s not an apology. It’s not. Merlin doesn’t really mind, he thinks. After what he’s done, he isn’t sure he’s entitled to an apology. Not from Morgana, at least. 

“It’s good to see you,” he says. What he means is that he’s glad to see her well, to see her talking coherently and not threatening him. Though she looks thin, like she hasn’t been eating enough. He hopes she is. 

She smiles like a shark. “You don’t have to lie, Emrys,” she says. 

Merlin wonders if she lived her whole life like this. If she turned every attempt to connect into an attack. 

He thinks about Arthur holding his hands up around his face when Merlin went in for a hug. He remembers Morgana flinching when Arthur’s voice turned into a yell. That was a fear that she shared with Arthur, then. 

Maybe both of them were the same, maybe if Merlin had reached out, had tried to help her, maybe she could have been redeemed, she could have healed. 

But he can’t deal in hypotheticals, not now. He has to play the cards he was dealt, he has to deal with the future he created. 

He settles on saying, “It _is_ good to see you.” Just so that she knows. She laughs bitterly, a sharp sound, one that makes Merlin’s chest ache. 

“You can go now,” she says, but it’s clear her heart isn’t in it. Merlin doesn’t move. She stomps her foot. “Emrys, if you don’t go, I'll—”

“Merlin.”

She stops and stares at him. “Sorry?”

He meets her eyes. “We were friends once, Morgana,” he says, “we can be again. You can call me Merlin.”

She sighs. “Merlin, then. Why do you want to stay here so bad?”

Merlin thinks about that for a second. “I want you to be okay, I think.”

She frowns. “ _Why_?”

That stops him in his tracks. “Because I think you deserve to heal. And because I see myself in you, and I need to be okay too.” His honesty shocks him as much as Morgana, and they both stay silent for a moment, letting that confession sink in. 

Finally she looks up, her jaw set. “Okay. You can stay.”

-

When they finally get around to it, Merlin and Morgana work very well together. She starts letting herself breathe around him, and everything starts to fall into place—instead of a house, they make a home in their companionship. 

They take care of each other, the way they always should have. Morgana stands up for him when he needs someone in his corner, and in return he supports her quietly, reminds her what it means to do the right thing. 

In the end, he needs her as much as she needs him. 

-

Arthur doesn’t come back for a long time. But he _does_ come back, when they’ve long since given up hope. Merlin and Morgana are walking arm in arm in the town square when Merlin catches a glimpse of a blond head. 

He gets a little closer, tries to catch his eye. It’s Arthur, that’s for certain. He pulls at Morgana’s arm and she looks too. All the color drains from her face. 

She leans heavily on him, her hand a vice on his arm. “Merlin, it’s him,” she says. Her voice is tight, like all of the time she’s spent uncoiling herself has been a waste, cause she’s managed to undo it all in just a few seconds of looking at Arthur. 

She’s been so good for so long, Merlin thinks, and for a second he’s angry. Angry at Arthur’s re-emergence. Right after Morgana had started to trust him, to bare her soul to him. It’s horrible timing. 

He’s pacing along the road outside of the market, somehow directly in the way of where Merlin and Morgana have to walk. 

Merlin steels himself and walks over to the market. Morgana follows him weakly. They’re trying desperately to avoid him, but he takes a wrong step and bumps into Merlin. 

And there’s Arthur, for real, looking at him with wide eyes, fear sharp in his eyes. 

“Merlin?” He says. His voice is almost gone, and his eyes dart over to Morgana, recognition creeping in. His hand reaches, uselessly, for a sword that he does not have. 

Merlin takes a step back. Morgana wrenches her arm from his and runs. It hurts, in the dull way that his old scars hurt. The same old betrayal, Merlin torn two-fold between the old and the new, between Arthur and Morgana, between love and friendship. 

“Arthur,” he says. His voice breaks. It’s been so long, it’s been more than a hundred years, it’s been longer than Merlin thought he could stand. He looks, desperately, over to Morgana’s retreating form. 

He’s frozen, somehow, and he keeps trying to move, to run after Morgana, but his feet won’t move and he’s stuck staring at Arthur’s face. He looks so scared, so confused. 

In that moment, Merlin decides he’s going to take care of Arthur again, he’s going to fulfil his destiny and make sure Arthur never feels scared like that again.

-

And it keeps going like that, Arthur lives and dies and Merlin and Morgana weave in and out of each other’s lives. And, slowly, they begin to heal, the wounds left by time and hatred begin to scab over and scar up. 

They keep on living, their magic draining slowly like water from sun-baked soil. Arthur keeps coming back and leaving like he’s a guest in their lives. 

When they manage to find a respite they only find comfort in each other. After so long it seems impossible for them to turn anywhere else. 

When they find Arthur, he is a young man called Andrew. He’s so _young_ and Merlin reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder and—


	2. the landscape after cruelty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is where most of the content warnings become relevant. The child abuse from Uther continues to be referenced, and there is one scene discussing Arthur's discomfort with having sex with men because he’s afraid of being abused. It's only mentioned near the end, but it is relevant to the plot, so if that makes you uncomfortable, please don't read this.
> 
> The chapter title comes from Snow and Dirty Rain by Richard Siken

It hits him in a flash, the fact of it, the past striking him like a bullet. And there’s _Merlin_ , completely unchanged, one hand on his shoulder and his eyes half-wet with tears. He can’t even speak he’s so shocked. It comes back like a train hitting him with the force of ten deaths at once. 

Very quietly, Merlin says, “Arthur?” 

He nods. It’s all he can do, really. And he looks over to the side and sees _her_. Morgana. His hand is to his belt before he remembers he doesn’t have a sword. 

“Get back,” he says, “get back, please.”

She takes a step back, then another. Merlin squeezes his shoulder lightly. “She’s not the person you remember,” he says. 

Arthur shakes his head. “She’s a witch,” he says. “She wants us dead.” It doesn’t come out half as strong as he wants—he’s been poisoned by the memory of Morgana as his friend. How she always made enough food for three. How she smiled at Merlin. It was a facade, he realizes. She must have wanted him dead the whole time. 

Morgana puts her hands out, as if to show that she has no ill will. “Arthur,” she says, her voice sharp. “I’m not — I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt Merlin. I mean. It’s been more than a thousand years.”

“A _thousand_ years?” Arthur looks to Merlin for confirmation, denial. Merlin closes his eyes and nods once. 

“She’s sorry,” Merlin says, “I mean—I'm sorry too. But please trust me, she doesn’t mean either of us harm.”

Arthur can’t do this. He can’t keep track of ten lifetimes _and_ the true one, the one where Morgana took up arms against him, and where Merlin betrayed him by lying a hundred times over. He wants to leave, he wants to flee to somewhere where things make sense. 

But as far as he can tell there are exactly _two_ people on this earth that know him, two people that remember him and Camelot and _everything_ else. He stays still.

They’re all quiet for a few minutes. Merlin keeps tapping his fingers on the table—some beat Arthur can’t place—and Morgana’s still doing her embroidery. 

“I thought Merlin killed you,” he says to her. Merlin winces.

She smiles absently, not looking up. “He tried,” she says. “Unfortunately, I can’t die.” There’s something unspoken there, and Arthur wonders if she’d say ‘not for lack of trying’ if they knew each other better. If she trusted him. 

She used to trust him. They used to tell each other everything, over sparring sessions on the training fields, in hushed tones during latin lessons. Then they didn’t. They _grew up_ , he remembers Morgana saying, with venom in her voice. 

Merlin adds, “It’s not exactly that simple. I mean, we don’t _know_ she can still die. It’d be quite difficult.” After a pause, he says quietly, “and I'm not eager to lose her, so—”

“You’re _not_?”

Merlin sighs. “I told you, we’re _friends_ now. So don’t waste your time trying to stab her or whatever it is you want to do. We both did horrible things but it was a _thousand_ years ago and we’re _sorry_.”

Arthur wonders about stabbing Morgana. He certainly would have done, quite a few times in the past, if he had the chance. But he’s since learned that no one is exactly what they seem. And Merlin’s giving him one of his looks (which is what Arthur used to call that half exasperated-half serious face he’d put on whenever he needed Arthur to trust him) so he tells that part of himself to stand down. 

Arthur puts his head in his hands. “Why did you—Morgana, why did you do it?”

For a moment he thinks Merlin is going to say something, that he’ll sit forward in his chair and make the whole thing make _sense_ , that Morgana was enchanted or- or lied to, but deep down, he knows that her decisions were hers and hers alone. 

Morgana crosses her ankles and folds her hands in her lap. It’s a gesture so familiar to Arthur, it’s the same way she used to sit in long meetings in court, face incredibly placid, blank. Her face isn’t blank now, she’s frowning slightly, her brow furrowed. 

She takes a breath and says, “I lived in a place that wanted me dead. That’s bad enough. And— and the one person I thought I could trust had betrayed me. I felt alone. But I thought if I just waged enough war, if I won enough battles, I'd feel better.”

Arthur looks down. “It didn’t work, though?” he says. Morgana smiles sadly.

“No. It didn’t.”

He nods. And then he looks over to Merlin, who almost looks ashamed. It hits him that Merlin is the betrayer Morgana speaks of. 

He remembers Morgana as his father’s ward, robes of Camelot’s red swirling around her as she shouted him down for being ignorant. He remembers Morgana, stuttering and shaking, wearing a dress of all black, throwing out curses with a wave of her hand. He thinks, a bit shamefully, of how quick he had been to draw a sword, how easily he had turned to violence in the face of uncertainty. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He feels like he’s swimming in an ice-cold pool, like he’s watching a battle go badly and not being able to stop it. Morgana looks— well, she doesn’t look how he remembers. She looks more alive than he ever saw her.

-

“So what do you do?” Arthur asks. Merlin looks over to Morgana and he feels a flash of envy — they don’t have to go through this horrible revelation, they don’t have a pounding headache from remembering past life after past life and the _pain_ and the _death_. Which— there was a lot of death. Too much, Arthur thinks. Too much for Merlin. 

He isn’t sure about Morgana yet. 

Morgana pours a glass of whiskey. “We drink,” she says quietly. 

Merlin nods absently. “We remember,” he adds on. 

Arthur scoffs. “You just _sit_ here?” he asks, “you don’t — I don’t know, try to _help_?”

Merlin hands him a glass. “We really can’t. Not anymore.” 

Morgana nods. “We lost most of our magic,” she says. “It’s still there, we’re still immortal—” she and Merlin both laugh at that, “but we really can’t _do_ anything with it.”

There’s something in their voices, in the set of their faces. They’re both tired, Arthur thinks. Not in the way that he’s tired but like— well, like they’ve been on their feet for a thousand or so years. He remembers how his father’s shoulders bowed with age, how he slept more but kept getting more tired. 

Merlin and Morgana are the same, he thinks, only they still look almost the same. _Almost_ , that is, because they both look — softer. Like the years are water and they’re rocks, shaped by time and pressure. The Morgana he remembers was cold. Sharp. He can’t really reconcile that with Morgana, who shared her books and read to him when he was sick. 

“Are you alright?” Merlin says. Arthur shakes his head.

“I can’t —” he says. Everything feels blurry. 

Merlin puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s always like this,” he reassures. “It’s just growing pains. You’re adjusting.”

Arthur tries to feel reassured. “Do you remember—” he starts. Morgana cuts him off.

“Best to wait on that,” she says. Her voice is still soft, but there’s an edge there. He wonders how hard he’d have to push to make her turn again, how hard it’d be to make her lose the softness she’s probably spent the better part of a thousand years cultivating. If he could press the right buttons, if he could say all the wrong things— but that would mean turning himself into his father. And he _isn’t_ going to do that. 

He puts his head in his hands. “What about Gwen?” He asks, desperation creeping into his voice. “Gwaine? Leon?”

Morgana sighs. Merlin squeezes his shoulder. “They’re gone,” he says. “They’ve been gone a really long time.”

“Why do I get to come back?” Arthur demands.

Morgana frowns. “We’ve got a few running theories,” she starts. Merlin shakes his head and she stops. Arthur wonders how long they’ve _known_ each other, how long they’ve been able to communicate without words. He wonders why he can’t do that anymore. Why it feels scary to look at Merlin in an apartment and not a castle, to see him in jeans and an old sweater like he’s managed to age and leave Arthur behind. 

It hurts, he thinks. He’s sad. There’s a small, angry voice in his head that’s telling him that sadness is worse than weakness, but he thinks he knows better than that now. His friends are _gone_ and he has to be here without them. That’s not— it isn’t fair.

He says as much and Merlin and Morgana nod. 

Morgana leans forward. “I mean, Arthur,” she says, in the insufferable Big Sister voice that makes Arthur want to cry he’s so glad to hear it, “me and Merlin, we’ve been around the block a few times. So have you, if you can remember. But you’ll get used to it. You’re young. You’ve got life to live.”

“Young?” Arthur asks. 

Merlin sighs. “Not young necessarily,” he says. “Just — I mean, fifteen hundred years is a lot. You haven’t lived nearly that long.”

“Why can’t Gwen—” 

Morgana huffs. “She just _can’t_. It’s not for lack of trying. Like I said, we’re burned out mostly. Not really much magic left in the world.”

Merlin chimes in, talking on the back of Morgana’s words. It’s clear they’ve done this before. “And, Arthur, _we_ don’t bring you back either. You just, kind of come back. We stay in one place a while and eventually you come around.”

Morgana continues, “You never remember us, either. We always have to do some explaining.”

Arthur thinks he can remember some of the explaining, Morgana drawing out diagrams, Merlin writing out lists. The two of them, working together like they were never enemies. He wonders how long it took them to atone. To forgive each other.

“About a hundred years,” Merlin says. Arthur looks over at him. He can’t tell if Merlin can read his thoughts or if he was actually thinking out loud. 

Morgana adds, “Merlin apologized first. And I apologized, too.” She turns to him, her eyes dark. “I’m sorry to you too, Arthur. You aren’t responsible for what Uther did.”

Arthur can hear, under the soft voice she’s using, the remnants of the half-sister he used to know. The firm voice that she used when she _knew_ she was in the right. 

It makes him long for a simpler time, when he was Arthur and _only_ Arthur, not saddled with the burden of ten or so lives but just the one, the simple one, with a kingdom to lead and knights to command. It makes him want something even further back— when he was just a prince and Morgana was just his father’s ward. 

He wonders if she misses it too. The way they took care of each other, like they were the only two people alive who could understand. They way that they thought, naively, that two teenagers, barely fifteen, could protect each other from the unstoppable force of their father’s rage. 

And he thinks about how they _couldn’t_ , about how Morgana got sharper and he got duller. How both of them became jaded and hard. How they were unwilling to bend for anything, because they were pulled so tight that easing up at all would have killed them. 

He looks down. “What about what _I_ did?” he asks. 

Morgana sighs. “Tell me, then. What did you do?” She arches an eyebrow, tilts her head. Like she’s heard it all before. 

Arthur thinks for a moment. “I persecuted sorcerers,” he says. “And I — I let my father mistreat people. I was stubborn. I started wars.”

Merlin nods. “But you were a good person,” he says, “I mean. You were stubborn as all hell—” he laughs, “but you were a _good_ person. You saved lives. You _ended_ wars.” 

Arthur wonders what Merlin has to gain from this. He remembers long meetings with stuffy advisors who spent half the time complimenting him. He tries to hear that same need for approval in Merlin’s voice. He isn’t sure if it’s there.

Of course, this is Merlin he’s talking about, Merlin who was stubborn and silly but always, _always_ kind, even when he was calling Arthur an idiot, even when he was striking sorcerers down with barely a word. 

But then again Merlin had lied to him, had lied for _years_ about his magic — so he’s not exactly innocent. Maybe he _isn’t_ trustworthy.

Arthur looks away from Merlin. From both of them. He’s hungry, he thinks. They were going to make dinner. It feels impossible to ask Merlin to do that for him. To have demanded everything he did, to have asked and asked for him to do his laundry and wash his dishes like he wasn’t even human — and then to ask again. 

And Morgana too, how could he look her in the eye and ask her to make him food when he had taken up arms against her and wished for her death? It would be impossible. 

“I'm sorry,” he says. It’s all so large, he thinks, too large for him to understand. There’s a dull pain in his head, but that’s not even the worst of it. He keeps seeing flashes of something like a memory, or a dream: Merlin sitting in a house— _this_ house—alone, waiting. How long has he been waiting? It’s insurmountable to him. It’s enormous. It’s larger than life—larger than anything he’s ever seen, and he’s fought dragons. 

And Merlin does that stupid little half-bow and says, “I forgive you,” and Arthur feels a little lightheaded. It’s not that he’s being forgiven, really. It’s the half-bow. It’s the deference. He doesn’t deserve it at all. He doesn’t deserve Merlin. 

He watches Merlin stand up. He walks a little slower than he should, stabilizes himself on the back of the chair. It hits him how _old_ Merlin seems. Even though Merlin looks as young as he did the day they met, he holds himself differently now. More cautiously. As if he’s carrying a great weight. 

Morgana looks over at him and raises one eyebrow. He can feel her judgement but he can’t tell _why_. Of course, Morgana wasn’t ever easy to read. A lifetime among nobility probably made it worse. 

“What?” he asks.

She tilts her head. “You’re sad,” she says. Matter-of-fact. Like there’s no room for argument. There isn’t really. She’s always known him enough to read him like this. He’s never been able to say the same—she’s always had the better poker face, and it’s still true now. 

He clears his throat. He won’t cry. “He’s far away,” he says. “I don’t remember him being far away.” His voice is quiet, and he thinks if he tried to talk louder his voice would break and he _would_ start crying.

Morgana nods. “We’re sad too,” she says, by way of explanation. “Do you want another drink?” She’s already pouring it, her hands steady. She stands up to hand it to him and their hands brush. She still runs hot, he realizes. 

“Thanks,” he says hoarsely. 

She smiles sadly. “It’s gonna get easier,” she says. Her eyes are dark, Arthur wonders if they’ve changed color or if he’s just misremembering her. How long had it been, since her exile — between the day he lost her and the day he lost himself? He isn’t very forgetful, but if she’s telling the truth then it’s been more than a thousand years, plenty of time to forget something. 

He takes a drink. The whiskey tastes sweet, and he savors the taste for a moment. It’s been an eternity since he’s had good alcohol. Or good anything. There are memories hovering at the periphery of his mind, just out of reach. 

Morgana seems to sense this, because she sits back in her seat, back ramrod straight, and says, “You remembering yet?” And _there’s_ the memory, of Morgana, at least, keeping her back straight and face neutral while his father had yelled at them, Morgana closing her eyes but still keeping her posture impeccable while men and women and _children_ died in front of them. 

He nods. 

There’s something approaching pity in her voice when she says, “It’s gonna hurt for a few days. But you’ll get used to it.”

Arthur looks to the kitchen, where Merlin is chopping vegetables. “What about him?” He asks.

Morgana closes her eyes. For a moment Arthur wonders if she’s just not going to answer, but she sighs and says, “We’re used to it.” 

There’s something in the set of her jaw that makes him think they _aren’t_ used to it. But who is he to judge? He’s been dead for a thousand years, on and off, at least. Not his place.

He leans forward. She sits back. “So why is he so... Out of it?” He asks. 

Morgana bites her lip. “If you were immortal,” she starts, and then stops. Takes another sip of whiskey. “Or— if you had to live for fifteen hundred years even. Think about how many people _die_ in that time. Think about how short ten years starts to feel. It’s just easier, sometimes, to be numb.” 

Arthur can hear Merlin humming an old melody in the kitchen — an old folk song from his childhood in Romania. The one his mother used to sing before the plague took her. One that they used to sing together. He doesn’t sound numb. 

But he thinks about _Merlin_ , before he remembered, and how he used to sit outside and smoke for hours. How he would smile sometimes, like it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Maybe numb is the right word for it. 

“But—” he starts. Morgana shakes her head. Merlin is walking back to the living room, holding a glass of ice water. 

Arthur looks up at him. “Remember Romania?” He asks. He doesn’t, not really—just vague recollections of a house shared with Merlin and Morgana in the countryside, raising sheep, of his mother, dead before he turned seven, and his father, who backhanded him so hard once he fell to the ground. 

What he wants is someone to fill in the gaps for him—someone to tell him about the stories they used to tell and the way they used to sing songs around a campfire and the way that life, despite being _very_ different now, is also very much the same. 

What he gets is Merlin handing his glass of water to Morgana and turning away from him. When he starts talking, Arthur has to strain to hear him. 

“Romania was really nice. But we were younger then. A lot happier.”

Arthur closes his eyes. Merlin says they were _younger_ , like they’re _older_ now. It’s making him feel out of his depth, like the floor has disappeared from under his feet. 

Merlin continues, “We raised sheep on a farm, remember? Like you used to say you wanted to.”

Arthur _can_ remember that — telling Merlin first and then Gwen about his dream to one day move far away from Camelot and to a farm in the country. To be free of any expectations of greatness and live a lifetime of satisfaction. 

“It wasn’t a lifetime,” Merlin says, and Arthur wonders again if he can hear his thoughts, “but it was _really_ good.”

Morgana adds, “It’s never a lifetime. You’re always gone before a decade goes by.”

 _That’s_ scary. Arthur thinks about how long he knew Merlin, way back when, back in Camelot, the years that sped by with Merlin by his side. How _well_ they knew each other. He thinks what he means is that they used to be close. Not the way Merlin is now, sitting too far away and looking above his head with distant eyes. 

-

“So why here?” he asks finally. 

Merlin laughs. Morgana nudges him with her shoulder. “Merlin chose it,” she says. “He won’t tell me why.”

Merlin looks over to him, eyes cloudy. “When we first got here, I went through the whole country. At the time it was— well, this was the only place I could find that I liked. And now, it’s still true, and I've seen the whole country.”

Arthur leans towards him. “But _why_ do you like it?”

Merlin smiles a little. “It’s just nice,” he says. “Or— well, I think it reminds me of home. A sort of place outside of time.”

Morgana closes her eyes. Arthur wonders if she’s going to cry, and almost laughs at the thought of Morgana crying. She’s too strong, too sure of herself. Arthur only saw her cry once, when they were children and his father forced them to watch the execution of a boy not much older than them. 

He wonders if she’s cried in the time since he died. He wonders if she cried— not for him, but for Mordred, when he died. Or Gwen. 

“Do you like it?” Merlin asks. He’s hesitant, almost worried. It’s uncharacteristic for him, but Arthur thinks maybe people can change in a thousand years. If you aren’t looking. 

He thinks for a second. “I do,” he says. Merlin smiles, breaking the spell. 

“I figured you would,” he says, eyes bright. “Cause you used to say you wanted to live on a farm, remember? But when we lived on a farm you hated the work. It’s all the aesthetic but none of the work.” 

Morgana laughs. “Don’t worry, Arthur,” she says, “I hated it too. Merlin just thrives on manual labor.”

Arthur thinks of every time Merlin complained about manual labor. He knows that’s not true, but there’s a kernel of truth in there — he’s just not sure where. 

Merlin sits back in his seat. “I was born on a farm,” he says, “it reminds me of home. You two remember, right?” 

It’s distant, but Arthur _does_ remember, a village just outside his kingdom, Merlin’s mother (like no one he’d ever met), Morgana bringing the women together to defend their home— yes. He remembers. 

Arthur asks, “Do you miss it?”

Merlin laughs. “Well, why do you think we’re _here_?” He’s smiling, a little, and Arthur wants to keep going, to make him smile wider, to make him laugh. If only so things would feel a little more normal, so he could feel like he was back at home. 

He realizes that _home_ , to him, is still Camelot. It’s still a castle where he and Merlin would waste time for half the day and scramble to work through the other half. Or, maybe, home is the place where he felt safe. 

“I do too,” he says. “More than anything.”

-

It isn’t until later that Arthur gets to talk to Morgana one on one, until the sun has set and they’ve talked into the night. Merlin excuses himself, saying something about needing to work in the morning. Morgana’s long since discarded her embroidery, replacing it with a glass of whiskey. Arthur wonders how much she’s drunk, but she’s been handing him drinks too, so if she’s drunk he’s likely to be as well. Best not to judge. 

She gestures vaguely to Merlin’s room. “He’s happy to see you,” she says. There’s something else in her voice, some tinge of emotionality. He’s never been good with detecting emotions, and Morgana has always been good at concealing them. 

He decides on asking, “you’re not?”

Morgana takes a drink. “It’s not that,” she says, “I'm just lonely.”

She’s telling the truth, Arthur is certain. There’s nothing concealed there, she’s just— telling him that she’s lonely. For some reason, that’s more frightening than anything else he’s seen. Morgana being lonely, and _telling_ him. 

“I'm sorry,” he says. She huffs a sigh. 

“Don’t do that.” she snaps. 

“Do what?”

She looks over sharply. “Don’t act like you pity me. We’re both adults, Arthur. You don’t have to hold my hand.” Her voice is hard, but even Arthur can tell it’s a facade. 

“I _am_ sorry,” he says. “And I think I understand what it feels like to be lonely now, so it’s not pity. It’s empathy.”

He _does_ understand. He can remember once, off in a plague-ridden village, where Merlin and Morgana forced him to take refuge alone in a house on the outskirts of town, not to speak to anyone, not even them. He can remember getting the plague anyway, the way his throat started to ache, and the fear of dying alone started to rise in his chest. 

She lifts her chin. “Yeah, you do,” she says. “Just not fifteen hundred years worth of it. You don’t _get_ it. He has you. I'm supposed to have him. And then, whenever you come back I _don’t_. Cause he likes you more. Everyone does.”

Morgana didn’t used to be angry, Arthur can remember that. She used to be a bright-eyed child, who would play knights with him and the village boys. And then his father had told them to stop playing with peasants, then his father had told Morgana she needed to play with the girls that would laugh at her hair, then his father had held their shoulders and forced them to watch execution after execution. And Morgana cried, while Arthur remained stoic. And Morgana got angry and kept getting angrier. She resented him, he knew, because he was favored, he was the golden child, and she was the black sheep. 

“Morgana,” he says softly. She glares at him over her glass. “You have me, right? We take care of each other, remember?” 

He’s talking about something they shared before Merlin came to Camelot, a pact they kept: when Uther would yell, when the girls would point and laugh, Arthur would stand beside Morgana and she would stand beside him. They practiced their poker faces with each other so no one would see them break. She had always been better at it. Arthur figures it was schooled into her by years of sitting in court with men who would _leer_ at her. By his father calling her a bitch to make her cry. 

Even when Uther would shout so loudly Arthur was sure the paintings would fall off the walls, they would stand shoulder to shoulder, faces neutral, and keep each other safe. His father wouldn’t hit him in front of a lady. And he wouldn’t call Morgana names in front of his son. 

“Still?” she asks. 

Arthur understands her doubt. After Merlin came, things started to change — Uther got more angry, would call Morgana whatever he pleased in whatever company, the executions got more frequent and Morgana got more angry, and Arthur stood with Merlin more often than with her. And then Morgana’s betrayal, and her attempts on his life. He understands. 

But he forgives her, he thinks, because all those years ago, she would link one pinky with his, even when his father backhanded him so hard he saw stars. After, she somehow managed to find ice without asking Gaius for help, so no one would find out. And she kept standing with him, kept standing _up_ for him, even when Uther called her names and threw her in the dungeons. 

He nods. “Remember? We’re blood brothers.” 

Back then, they had made a blood oath with one of Morgana’s many daggers, cutting their palms and mixing their blood, promising to keep each other safe. Morgana came up with the name, boasting that she was more of a man than him. 

She smirks. “More like blood sisters,” she says, and _there’s_ his sister. _There’s_ the Morgana he’d searched for in her eyes, when she faced him down in the halls of Camelot and tried to kill him. _There’s_ the Morgana he was looking for all this time. 

Then she sobers up for a second. “Don’t tell Merlin,” she says. “He’ll feel bad.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You’re worried about Merlin now?” He asks. But he understands her trepidation— Merlin gets funny when he feels bad, he’ll lay around and mope for days, and Arthur will be forced to come up with a way to make him feel better. (He’s never been good at that). 

He wonders if Morgana has the same problem, if Merlin will sulk if she’s mean to him— at that thought, he gets a little defensive and prays that she isn’t mean to Merlin. 

Morgana meets his gaze head on. “And you’re not?”

That’s a low blow. She knows it, too, cause she takes a sip of her whiskey, making eye contact the whole time. Arthur huffs. “Rude.”

She laughs. Arthur tries to defend himself, saying, “you know how he gets. He’s _pathetic_ when he’s sad.” 

Morgana smiles. Affectionately, like she’s intimately familiar with Merlin’s moping. Like she’s been on the receiving end of his sulking as much as he has. He thinks about how long fifteen hundred years _is_ , and decides that she’s seen more of it than him. For some reason, that _hurts_. He doesn’t want to think about why.

He thinks Morgana can tell, cause she leans in and says, “don’t lash out at him cause you can’t process your own feelings.” Her voice is light, still, but she looks over to Merlin’s room with a worried expression. Like she’s worried _Arthur_ is going to hurt Merlin. He wonders where that protectiveness came from, but he remembers the Morgana of his youth, the Morgana who would fight tooth and nail to protect the little girl with a limp and the boy who talked funny. Or the little druid boy who grew up to kill Arthur. Merlin is just another victim for her to defend, he supposes. 

Of course, they both know, they both _have_ to know, that Merlin isn’t a victim in any sense of the word. He’s never sat back and taken anything, really. Arthur frowns and says, “you don’t have to defend him from me, you know.”

The operative phrase being _from me_. Arthur would never do anything to hurt Merlin. 

Morgana tilts her head. “I don’t?” She asks. Her voice is still deceptively light, her legs crossed at the ankles, her eyes dark. It feels like she’s accusing him. Of what, he isn’t sure yet. 

“you don’t.”

She stands up and walks into the kitchen. Arthur follows her, sitting at the counter. While she’s pouring a glass of water, she says, “you treated him pretty bad, you know. Even I could see that.”

Arthur frowns. “You tried to kill him.”

Morgana puts a hand on his shoulder. “Arthur,” she says, slipping back into the big sister voice, “what do you think you killing magic users _did_ to him? That’s _worse_ than death.”

Arthur huffs. “What do _you_ know?” He regrets saying it immediately, because he remembers watching the light fade from Morgana’s eyes, watching her retreat from the public eye and get more anxious and more mean, and not being able to do anything about it. Or not doing anything about it. He _could_ have done something. 

She seems to notice his regret, because she only says, “it felt like you _made_ me a bad person. That I was standing there and doing nothing because I was privileged. That not saying anything, not stopping you or uther, not putting _myself_ at risk— _that_ made me a monster.”

“So I made him feel like a monster?” Arthur asks. 

Morgana frowns. “Not exactly. But watching people like you get executed for ten years isn’t great for your mental health. But Merlin and I aren’t the same person. You should ask _him_.”

She looks almost accusing, but she hands him the glass of water anyway. Grabs another for herself. 

Arthur feels like he’s sinking in quicksand. Hearing Morgana lucid is strange enough, but hearing her calm is disorienting. He thinks she’s mellowed out with age, same as Merlin. Same as him, honestly. 

He wants to reach out, to ask her to help. The last time he was sinking in quicksand it was her fault, he remembers. The least she can do is help him out of it now. Very quietly, he says, “will he forgive me?”

Morgana turns her head. Her hair falls over her face. She answers him, infuriatingly, with a question of her own: “did you forgive him?”

For some reason Arthur feels like she’s just made things worse. Because, in the end, _did_ he forgive Merlin? Out loud, in a way that was quantifiable? Because from what he can remember (which isn’t much, considering that he was dying at the time), he never really _said_ he forgave Merlin. He never absolved Merlin of his sins. 

By that logic, he doesn’t deserve Merlin’s forgiveness. By that logic, his sins will never be absolved, the blood will never wash off of his hands. 

He doesn’t mean Merlin anymore. He’s past begging forgiveness of a man who’s still alive. It’s the innocent blood he needs wiped clean, it’s the hundreds of sorcerors condemned at his hands. It’s _them_ that he needs to beg forgiveness from. Merlin’s a surrogate in this argument. The question isn’t whether or not he could forgive Merlin. Nor is it whether Merlin could forgive him. The question is what he’s supposed to do the hundreds of lives cut short before their time. It’s what Morgana could have done with all her potential. It’s the empty space where hundreds of lives _should have been_. 

He doesn’t quite know what to do with that. How exactly he’s supposed to go back, fifteen hundred years out, and, what? _Stop_ himself? Or somehow _atone_? 

He looks over past Morgana. Out the window. “What if I didn’t?” He asks. “What if I _couldn’t_ forgive him? What if _I_ was the villain all along? What if—”

She puts a hand on his arm. “Arthur.” She says. Her voice is sharp, cutting through his thoughts. “There is no villain. This is not a fairytale. It’s not black and white. We all did bad things, okay? And you _did_ forgive Merlin, even if you didn’t say it out loud.” 

Her hand on his arm is burning hot, and for a second, Arthur is wrenched violently back to childhood, when he’d check Morgana for a fever when she got sick because no one else cared enough to do it. He realizes that she is repaying the favor, she’s checking him for a fever, a panic that he can’t get out of. She’s his sister, he remembers. She’s his big sister. 

“I killed—”

She moves her hand and for a suspended second Arthur thinks she’s going to slap him. He covers his face with a hand before it hits him that he doesn’t have to flinch away from her. She’s not going to hurt him again. 

After he recovers she crouches down a little, puts a hand on his chin. It’s something that is impossible to be read as a threat. And it’s the pose of supplication. He wonders what, exactly, she is supplicating him _for_. 

“So did I,” she says firmly. The sharpness is gone now, replaced with her still unflinching bluntness. “Look, Arthur, I _know_ . I've felt that same guilt. Merlin has too. But you have to move on, okay? Acknowledge it, fix your mindset, but _move on_. It’s better for us in the long run.” 

There’s a beat of silence. Morgana doesn’t move. Arthur doesn’t move either. She takes a breath and adds, “and I'm not going to hit you. I wouldn’t.”

Arthur feels his heart sink. He hates that she has to say that, he hates that he needs to hear it. He clenches his jaw. Tries to keep himself from crying. Because, for him, crying has always been accompanied by a slap. Or a reprimand, the kind that sent him reeling, wondering if he was really good enough to be the prince.

Very softly, he says, “c’mon, Morgana.” 

She doesn’t move. “Arthur.” Her voice is still firm, solid. He thinks if he was going to fall down, he’d only trust her to hold him up. “Listen to me. I'm _not_ going to hit you. Arthur, I wouldn’t. You’re my little brother.”

Still solid. Still his big sister. Of course, back when they were still blood brothers, they never needed that reassurance, they never needed to promise they wouldn’t hurt each other. It was a given— they trusted each other more than anything, so why would they ever break that trust? 

But they _did_ break that trust. He has to promise, then, to make up for it.

He puts a hand on her cheek, tries to mirror her pose from above. She closes her eyes, but Arthur can see tears spilling over her lashes. “Morgana,” he says. She tilts her head, pushes her face into his palm, and a tear runs into his hand. “I'm not going to hurt you either,” he promises. 

He thinks about healing and moving on. There’s a part of it that’s still insurmountable to him, and he knows it always will be. But there’s some of it, some things, that he thinks he might be able to move on from. Some things he can leave in his past. 

-

It’s almost surprising, how quickly they find a routine. Arthur still goes to work, and Merlin still writes his articles. Morgana still spends most of her days teaching herself greek. Arthur tries to help her, but he can’t remember his lessons. 

Every once in a while he turns to Merlin, a demand on the tip of his tongue. He always catches himself, always stops himself before he can say the wrong thing. Merlin isn’t a servant anymore, he can’t keep demanding he iron his clothes or wash his dishes. And, when it comes down to it, he shouldn’t have been demanding so much of a servant either. 

For what it’s worth, Merlin doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps doing what he was doing before, writing and sketching and smoking like a chimney. He keeps doing the chores, too. Arthur leaves a plate by the sink and walks away, and when he comes back it’s clean. He wonders if Merlin is doing it on purpose, to make him feel bad. Or just out of habit.

He brings his laundry into the living room to fold it and Merlin joins him, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Merlin lifts a shirt out of the laundry basket and folds it. 

he tilts his head and tells Arthur, “you know you don’t fold your clothes right? It’s why they’re always wrinkled.”

Arthur sighs. “why— why are you doing this?” he asks. Merlin picks up another shirt. Arthur realizes that he’s never done something like this— it used to be that he was afraid of degrading himself, that labor was below a prince. And then, later, he’d just accept that his clothes were washed and folded and not question who was doing it. 

But here he is, allowing himself to be degraded, allowing himself to acknowledge that Merlin does these things for him, for whatever reason. 

Merlin doesn’t seem to notice. He just keeps folding the laundry, eyes focused. After a while, he says, “I like doing things for you. When you’re not yelling at me, that is.” his voice is soft. Honest. Arthur tries to copy the way he folds the shirt.

Merlin keeps folding. Arthur wonders how much of life he missed out on. All the chores he never quite learned how to do. Merlin’s hands are steady. Practiced. Arthur realizes that he hasn’t heard Merlin complain once yet. He can’t quite tell why that feels like a _bad_ thing, but it does. 

he kicks Merlin’s shin. “you’re too quiet,” he says. 

Merlin looks up at him. His eyes are dark, and Arthur wonders if, after all this time, he might be able to read sadness on Merlin’s face. There’s a downturn of his eyebrows, a softening of his jaw. Sad, he thinks, is the right word.

Arthur thinks, briefly, that he might be sad too. 

Sure enough, Merlin, eyes still dark, jaw still soft, says, “sorry. I get melancholic around this time.”

Arthur knows there’s a joke he could make — he could ask if perhaps it was his time of the month, or ask if Merlin was sure he knew how to use the word melancholic. He doesn’t, though, and it isn’t because he’s grown past it, but because he knows that Merlin would force a smile and it would make everything feel worse. 

sympathy it is, then, he supposes. He leans forward and puts a hand on Merlin’s arm. 

“It’ll get better,” he says. Merlin cracks a half-smile. 

“Will it?” 

That’s fair, he supposes. What kind of assurance can he _really_ offer, after Merlin’s been on the other side of better for so long? All he has is empty promises.

“Well, I'm learning how to fold my own laundry,” he says lightly, “so you’re bound to get a day off sometime this century.”

Merlin laughs. There are tears in his eyes. Arthur counts it as a win anyway, cause Merlin puts down the shirt he was folding and sits in the chair across from Arthur. They’re on even footing again, Merlin no longer beneath him. 

Arthur wonders what would happen if he were to move onto the floor. If he were to say, in no uncertain terms, ‘you are above me. I defer to you.’ if Merlin would _let_ him do that. He thinks about old greek customs. Of supplication. He thinks of kneeling at Merlin’s feet and asking for forgiveness. Or— what he really wants is more than forgiveness. It’s more selfish.

“I'll teach you someday,” Merlin says. Arthur realizes that, when it comes down to it, he’s never really had to ask Merlin for anything. There’s always been an unspoken understanding between them, a silent willingness to bend for each other. No matter what it cost them. 

he’s really grateful for it, he thinks. For Merlin’s loyalty. That Merlin doesn’t push him any more, doesn’t _make_ him ask. 

-

Arthur goes looking for Merlin, but he’s not in the house. When he gets the idea to look outside it’s late, and the sun is setting. Merlin’s standing on the porch, smoking a cigarette. Arthur walks out to join him. 

Without turning around, Merlin takes a drag off his cigarette. “So me and Morgana were talking,” he says quietly. Arthur gets a little closer to hear him better. He continues, “and I want to know what your opinion is. What do you think happens when we die?”

Arthur wasn’t prepared for such a heavy question. It takes him by surprise, a little, and he leans against the porch railing for support before answering.

“I think we’ll go to heaven,” he says. Merlin laughs softly, and he feels a little silly for the idealism. “I mean, we deserve it, don’t we?”

Merlin is quiet for a few seconds. Arthur gets the sense that he’s contemplating. Finally, he says, “I think we do. But we don’t always get what we _deserve_ . I mean, wouldn’t you say we _deserve_ to die in peace? Or we _deserve_ to be happy? And here we still are. Just because you want something doesn’t mean you can get it. Sometimes we’re just... unlucky.”

“I think our luck will even out eventually,” Arthur says. “why, what do you think will happen?”

Merlin turns away. “I don’t think we _can_ die,” he says softly. 

“If you could, though,” Arthur prompts. 

He can almost hear a smile in Merlin’s voice when he says, “I think we get to go back to Camelot. You and me. And we get to grow old and die _there_. Not here.”

The thought of home overwhelms Arthur. He closes his eyes tight and tries not to let tears fall. “And everyone else?” he asks, “Gwen and Gaius and —”

“They’ll be there,” Merlin says. “and we’ll get to grow old _with_ them.” He takes a breath, turns back to Arthur. “With each other.”

He’s saying something else, Arthur is sure. He’s not sure what it is. Or— that isn’t exactly right. He doesn’t _want_ to know what it means. There _is_ a part of him that knows, that wants to reach out, across the miles of space between them, and say— something. 

He doesn’t say what he wants to. Instead he asks, “do you _want_ to die?” it feels unfair, it feels dangerous. It’s a _bad_ thing to ask. 

Still, Merlin leans back on the railing, takes another drag off his cigarette, and says, “yeah. Yeah, I do.” He pauses for a few seconds, as if waiting for a reaction, then continues, “not out of self-pity. I'd just like to rest eventually.”

His eyes are distant, almost like he’s miles away. Arthur wonders how much he remembers, if maybe his mind drifts around the world, to their lakeside home in the Italian countryside, or to the small village in Ireland, or to the cottage on the New England coast. Or to home, which is what Arthur still calls Camelot, even a thousand years later. Because when he thinks of _home_ , he can only think of his corner of the world with Merlin and Gwen and his knights. When he dreams, he dreams of Camelot.

Merlin doesn’t say anything else, just keeps smoking. Arthur tries to trace when he picked up _that_ habit, but he can’t quite tell. Some time in the past hundred years, he supposes, because he can’t remember seeing him smoke. 

Arthur clears his throat. Merlin turns to look at him, eyes still distant. Trying to keep his voice quiet, he says, “you’ll get cancer.”

Merlin laughs quietly. “I can’t,” he says. They both leave it unsaid but Arthur guesses he’s thinking that he would very much like to get cancer. 

Arthur wonders if he should give some sort of speech, or even say _anything_ , but he’s never been good with words and for some reason, being around Merlin just makes him fumble his meaning even more. 

It seems to him that nothing he’s ever done is good for Merlin. Any attempt to connect with him only lays bare the gulf between them. 

Merlin steps closer to him. Close enough that he can feel heat radiating off of his skin, close enough that, if Arthur were to go inside, he would brush against Merlin. His mind runs, quickly, through the ways this could be construed as a threat. He doesn’t think it is. In a lot of ways, it is the opposite of a threat, Merlin soft and warm beside him. (Somehow, Arthur feels all the more threatened by that).

“What about you?” Merlin asks, voice low. He takes another drag off his cigarette. “Do you think— would it be better if we were dead?”

Arthur wonders. “I think I'd miss you,” he says, “if I died.” Merlin laughs softly, but Arthur doesn’t think it’s mean spirited, cause he stops laughing almost as quickly as he started, and sighs quietly. 

“I'd find you,” Merlin says. His voice is light. “In heaven somewhere. I'd take care of you there.” 

“You’d take care of me when we’re dead?” 

Merlin laughs a little. It’s less of a laugh and more a quick exhalation, almost a sigh. “Only if you wanted,” he says, voice soft. He adds, a little stiffly, “that is, if we _can_ die.”

There’s a breeze coming through the trees, and Arthur feels a cold seeping in, to his bare arms. He closes his eyes. “Don’t you want to hope?” he asks. Merlin moves away, and the cold gets more intense in the absence of his heat. All cold, he remembers, is the absence of heat. Is he cold because the wind is blowing? Or is he cold because Merlin is absent from him?

“My hope ran out after you died the tenth time,” Merlin says. His tone is conversational, casual. Arthur wants to reach out to him. He wants to take it all back. He wants to make Merlin believe in something again. He wants to be the hope that Merlin needs. Unfortunately, he’s just a man, and he doesn’t really have any reassurances he can offer. 

He doesn’t move closer, even though he wants to. He wants to draw Merlin back in, to offer flimsy stories of greatness and peace. About a golden age they never got to see. He doesn’t have much hope either, when it comes down to it. 

So he asks, “what does it feel like?”

Merlin looks over at him. “It feels like purgatory,” he says. “I mean, like I'm being punished for the things I failed to do. Like I'm just going to be stuck wandering through the world until the sun explodes, which, by the way, it _is_ going to explode at some point. But at least maybe then I'll be able to die. In, like, a million years or whatever.” His voice rises into a panicked crescendo, his hands gesturing wildly. 

Arthur doesn’t know what to do with that. He thinks for a second, and realizes that he really _can’t_ help Merlin with this. He can’t offer up anything that would ease this pain, nothing to shoulder some of this burden. He moves closer. Just so Merlin knows that, at least, he isn’t alone. 

“I'll be there,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. Trying to make this sound fair in any way. “When the sun explodes. I'll be with you.”

Merlin laughs a little. There isn’t really much humor in it, but he leans closer to Arthur, close enough that Arthur can see flecks of gold in his blue eyes. Close enough that Arthur can feel his warmth return to him. 

“Sorry,” Merlin says, his voice sharp. “It’s the weather. I can’t stand humidity.”

It’s so hopelessly silly that Arthur laughs, and then Merlin laughs too, his face shifting back into the smile that Arthur had missed so desperately, throwing off the dark shadow. He puts a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, just to let him know that he’s there. He’s present. It doesn’t really help, but he does it anyway. 

-

“Why’d you lie?” Arthur asks. Merlin, up to his elbows in soapy water, turns sharply to look at him. He continues, “about your magic. Why didn’t you just tell me?” He knows the answer. He thinks he’s asked Merlin the same thing about ten times. But he wants to hear him say it. He wants to have his own failures laid out in front of him. He wants Merlin to tell him why he wasn’t worthy of his trust.

Merlin rubs his face with the back of his hand. He’s still for a few seconds, before he starts washing the pot Arthur used to make rice. Arthur wants to stop him, to offer to wash his own dishes, but he doesn’t. 

“You know why,” Merlin says quietly. Arthur can’t tell if he’s sad or angry. Either way, he feels bad that he’s made Merlin feel— that way. 

But Merlin clears his throat and continues, “I was scared you’d kill me.” It’s like he’s reading off a list, one that he’s read a hundred times. Ten at least. “I was scared you’d be angry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to stop protecting you.”

His voice gets quieter, and he says, “there was a part of me that _liked_ being just a servant. I _liked_ not having to worry about saving the world or being the most powerful sorcerer. I wanted someone to like me for _me_. Not for my destiny or for my power.”

Arthur remembers this conversation. He remembers Ireland, and Merlin crying in their small hut, he remembers Romania, and Merlin turning away from him to face the field of sheep. He remembers New England, and long conversations about secrets on the beach. He remembers dying in Merlin’s arms. (that one is a little more painful).

“There’s something else, though. Isn’t there?” he asks. 

Merlin stops washing the pan for a second. Arthur know that _this_ is uncharted territory. He’s never asked this of him, he’s never gone this far. Maybe out of fear, maybe out of something else. Something deeper than fear. 

Merlin closes his eyes. Arthur wonders for a second if he’s just going to leave, not say anything in response. Arthur wouldn’t blame him for that. 

But Merlin takes a breath and says, “yeah. I was in love with you. I didn’t want to lose you.”

He’s not surprised by it, not really. Merlin says it so plainly there really isn’t room for him to be shocked. He just keeps washing the dishes, eyes distant. 

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “You could say something, you know.”

Arthur laughs. “I'm trying to process,” he says. “It’s a big revelation, you know?”

Merlin pushes his hair out of his face with his arm. Arthur doesn’t say anything more. He thinks he had known for a while. But the times had changed, and the idea of two men together was frowned on in society for long enough that he decided to push it down. Or— he shouldn’t be blaming this on society—he’s as much at fault, because there was always a part of him that didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to confront the fact that maybe Merlin, who he always believed wanted _nothing_ except for a day off, wanted something from him. That maybe there was a part of him that didn’t want to give it. 

Merlin pulls the plug out of the drain. “Things have changed,” he says plainly. “It’s not a bad thing anymore.”

“I know.”

He turns around so he’s leaning on the counter, still not making eye contact with Arthur. “I only didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it was important. Not— I wasn’t ashamed. I wasn’t ever ashamed.”

Arthur turns to him. “Why did you think it wasn’t important?” he asks.

He can see Merlin crack a smile. “You kept almost dying?” he says, “and then you kept _really_ dying. And I didn’t think — I mean, I didn’t want to bother you with it. You were busy.”

Arthur wants to hit him. “You’re such an idiot, Merlin,” he says, and Merlin tilts his head up and smiles wider. Arthur continues, “I wouldn’t have minded, hearing it. _Knowing_ it.”

“I don’t know,” Merlin says. “I kind of figured you always knew, same with the magic. I didn’t exactly _hide_ it.”

Arthur can remember trees falling conveniently, he can remember fires starting on wet wood. He can remember Merlin holding his gaze not out of defiance but a sort of tenderness, he can remember Merlin saying ‘ _only for you_ ’ like a confession instead of a justification. Merlin is right, he thinks. He knew. Of course he knew. He just didn’t _want_ to see it. 

“I didn’t want to know,” he says. Merlin, miles away, looks over to him. 

“ _That’s_ it.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. Merlin dries his hands with a dish towel and pulls out a cigarette. He turns to Arthur and tilts his head, and walks out towards the porch. After a moment’s hesitation, Arthur follows him. 

It’s hot out, in the heavy way he remembers hating as a child. Merlin lights his cigarette with a practiced ease. 

Arthur looks over. “Couldn’t you use magic?”

Merlin frowns. “Didn’t we tell you?” Arthur shakes his head. Merlin sighs. “Me and Morgana kind of _can’t_ do magic anymore. We’re burned out.”

Arthur laughs at his choice of words. From what he can remember, Merlin used a lot of fire. That and the way that he always seemed to radiate heat. The way that Morgana used to burn old journals in her fireplace. 

All of a sudden, he’s cold, even in the heavy July heat. It should be funny, and fifteen hundred years ago he’d nudge Merlin and they’d laugh about it. It isn’t funny. 

He’s waiting for Merlin to ask him the question—to turn to him and ask if he loves him back, or if he ever did. He’s waiting for Merlin to demand something he isn’t sure he can give. 

Merlin nudges him with an elbow. “You okay?” he asks. Like he’d never even said anything. Arthur marvels at him, at the way he can make every life-changing confession feel so casual. For a second he thinks he could try to forget, could close his eyes and pretend it didn’t happen. He wonders if Merlin would let him do it. 

In retrospect, Merlin’s silence on his magic probably is enough of an indicator. Enough that, if he asked, or even _implied_ that he didn’t want to talk about Merlin being in love with him— well, Merlin would shut up about it. But the same part of him that kept pressing, that wanted to hear the truth, that part knows that he needs to say something. He needs to explain _himself_. 

“Are you really not gonna ask?” Arthur asks. It’s all he can manage, really. 

Merlin takes a drag off the cigarette. “D’you want me to?”

Arthur doesn’t have the patience for these mind games. They’re not exactly mind games, but it’s still too indirect for his taste — talking around the point like they’re two diplomats instead of two people who have been friends for longer than most people are alive. 

He looks straight ahead. Away from Merlin. “Yeah. Please.”

Merlin leans in closer. He smells like smoke, smoke and dish soap, which is almost intoxicating in its strangeness. He remembers Merlin’s steady hands, which almost always smelled like soap, pouring his drinks, organizing the papers on his desk. Serving him. Merlin doesn’t touch him. He never has. He’s not sure how to feel about that. 

“Are you in love with me?” Merlin asks. Arthur closes his eyes. He realizes, a little late, that he doesn’t quite know how to answer this question. He _thinks_ he loves Merlin. But there’s a part of him that protests that he doesn’t know what love is. Of course, he’s felt _love_ , he was in love with Gwen for... well, for a while at least. There was a point where marriage became convenience instead of passion. A transaction. Merlin has never been a transaction to him, but that’s mostly because he didn’t see fit to give anything over to Merlin. 

If he had to define love, for himself, he thinks it would look a lot like Merlin. Or— more specifically, what Merlin did for _him_. He thinks of loud complaints and quiet support. Of the way that Merlin would stay silent while he railed against his father or his advisors. Of Merlin holding him close as he died. 

He tries to think of any time he’s felt that intentionally about anyone. All he can think of is chasing after Merlin on a perilous day in the woods. Of dying in Merlin’s arms. Not Gwen, not his _wife_ , but his friend, his servant, his— he can’t come up with a word that accurately describes Merlin. He was about to call him ‘his Merlin’ like Merlin was a thing to possess instead of a person. This is why he never put much stock in love, not the way he knew it. It was always a taking. A man would take something from a woman. He can’t reconcile that with what he knows now. 

“I think so,” he says. Merlin steps away. It’s almost like Arthur can feel his absence, even with his eyes closed. Like he’s left a hole where he was standing. 

Arthur turns to look at him. He’s stubbed out his cigarette, and is looking _out_ , to the woods behind the house. Arthur realizes that Merlin said that he _was_ in love with Arthur. Past tense. 

“Hang on,” he says. Merlin turns to look at him, eyes wide. “you said you _were_ in love with me. Are you— are you not?”

Merlin smiles. “No, I am,” he says, quietly. “still.”

The sun is going to set soon. The sky is orange, almost heavy with the weight of the sun. Merlin is quiet beside him, and Arthur wonders what they’re going to do. Where they’re going to go. 

Merlin puts an arm, tentatively, around his shoulders. 

Arthur leans into the contact, lets Merlin’s heat seep into his chest. “What’re we gonna do now?” he asks. 

Merlin sighs. “What we always do,” he says. He still sounds tired, Arthur realizes. He doesn’t know why, but he expected change. He expected the ground to shift, he expected explosions or fireworks or _something_. 

He expected Merlin, at least, to change. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like that is the case. 

Merlin sort of pulls him inside, guiding him with the hand on his shoulder. Arthur closes his eyes and allows himself to be guided. 

-

Merlin isn’t exactly drunk, but he’s lost a bit of his edge, a flush on his cheeks, his words slurring a little, dropping into clipped old Welsh phrases, ones that Arthur can remember but still sound strange to his untrained ears. 

“ _Remember_ —” Merlin says, and back to English, “mm. Remember when you killed the dragon?” Arthur nods. Merlin laughs. “It was fake! I knocked you out and sent the dragon away instead! I was a dragonlord the whole time!”

Arthur knows, dully, that he should be angry at this blatant betrayal, at Merlin laughing — _laughing_! at this very serious thing. But he’s pretty drunk too, and he thinks it’s an improvement to see Merlin laugh. After all their melancholy, he thinks they both deserve a break.

“How many times did you knock me out, Merlin?” he asks. Merlin waves a hand dismissively, as if to say ‘a bunch of times.’ _Asshole_ , Arthur thinks, with intense affection. 

Merlin half-bows, in an insulting mockery to courtly custom, and says, back in old Welsh, for old times sake, “ _at your service, your majesty_.” He laughs, a welcome sound, and covers his face with his hands. 

“You’re lucky I love you, you complete idiot,” Arthur says. It only registers when Merlin sobers up completely and stares, wide-eyed, at him for a few seconds. 

Merlin laughs nervously and says dryly, “glad you framed that love confession with an insult, or else I might have died of shock.” Arthur thinks he might be _scared_ , which is even more concerning than the fact that he just said he loves Merlin. 

He leans into it, says, “I'm glad you didn’t die. Because I love you. You stupid prat.”

Merlin grins. “That one’s mine,” he protests, “you stole my insult, you dick.”

Arthur feels an intense desire to kiss Merlin. Which he thinks is funny, but only because Merlin just called him a dick. And cause he thinks Merlin might _let_ him, which was never a consideration the other times he thought about kissing Merlin. 

“Come here a second,” he says, and Merlin laughs. 

He drops back to their old language to say, “ _don’t order me around_ ,” but he stands up anyway and walks over to Arthur’s seat on the couch. 

Arthur kisses him, chastely, on the mouth. Merlin flushes even more, and steps back in shock.

“ _A little warning next time_?” he says, sitting down on the couch, his knee knocking into Arthur’s. Arthur’s very aware of how close they are, how Merlin’s body heat is amplified with the alcohol, how Merlin’s slurring his words. He can’t stop thinking about kissing Merlin again. But then his logical brain kicks in and he thinks that maybe they can’t consent to stuff like that if they’re as drunk as he thinks they are. 

He tells Merlin this, and he nods soberly. “Maybe we should sleep?” Merlin says. “And you should drink some water. So you’re not hungover.”

Arthur agrees. He tries to stand up, and almost falls over onto Merlin. Merlin steadies him with one hand and helps him stand up fully. “You’re a mess,” Merlin says, not without affection. And, very quietly, he adds, “I do love you, though. Despite the idiocy.”

It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to Arthur, so he starts crying. Merlin laughs a little, in shock, he thinks, and sits him back down on the couch. 

“ _Hey_ ,” he says, “ _hey, Arthur, it’s okay. It’s okay_ .” Arthur keeps crying. Mainly because Merlin is being so _stupidly_ nice to him, and is holding both his shoulders and his hands are really warm and Arthur wants to kiss him again but tears are really a mood killer, so he doesn’t. 

When he’s a little calmer, Arthur says, “sorry. I don’t think anyone’s ever... said that to me? And I'm _very_ drunk.”

Merlin smiles fondly. “I'll get you some water, then.”

It’s ice water somehow, even though Arthur didn’t hear the freezer open. Magic, he thinks, but he doesn’t care, because what it _really_ is is a manifestation of Merlin’s care for him. He drinks the whole glass in one gulp, not even pausing for air.

“I need to go to sleep,” Arthur says, standing up abruptly. Merlin smiles a little and guides him, one hand on the small of his back, to his room. Before he goes in, Merlin kisses him on the cheek.

Arthur turns to him. He knows he’s drunk out of his mind, but he wants Merlin _close_ to him, he wants to make sure that Merlin doesn’t change his mind. 

He turns to Merlin and says, only slurring his words a little, “come to bed with me?”

It’s not seductive by any measure, and he feels a little silly saying it, but Merlin blushes and smiles. 

“You’re drunk,” Merlin says. 

Arthur bites his lip. “Please?” 

Merlin comes to bed with him. Nothing happens, and for some reason, Arthur is both intensely grateful for that and a little dissatisfied. 

He’s aware, incredibly aware, of how close they are, how he’s close enough to feel Merlin’s body heat, but still not touching. He remembers hunting trips where Merlin would sleep just a foot away, so close that Arthur could have reached out and touched him. He never did, and Merlin never reached out to him. Now he can, he can turn around and be face to face with Merlin, he can turn and press his lips to Merlin’s, if he wants to. 

He doesn’t, not right now. Instead, he whispers, “say it again?” and Merlin moves a little closer, so his mouth is close to Arthur’s ear. 

Merlin sighs softly, and says, in old Welsh, in the language of Arthur’s youth and death; the language in which he learned about love and war and life— Merlin says, “ _I love you_.”

“Mm. Again.”

Merlin laughs at that, which Arthur processes more as a feeling in his chest, the way his heart jumps at the sound. Even quieter, Merlin repeats, “ _I love you_ .” there’s a music in it, a sort of lilting turn in his voice that almost sounds like a song, the root of every love song he’s ever heard, Arthur wants to hear it over and over again, he wants Merlin to never _stop_ saying he loves Arthur, cause it makes everything feel clear and bright. 

But Merlin pushes his elbow into Arthur’s rib and says “ _go to sleep, okay_?” 

After he pushes down the energy that’s bubbling up in his chest, Arthur closes his eyes. Merlin is warm beside him, but for some reason, the room is colder than usual, almost in response to Arthur’s needs. He feels safe, for the first time in a long time. 

-

Morgana sits down next to Arthur as he’s eating his breakfast (eggs and toast, the only thing he can make himself). She shoves him a little, with her shoulder. He turns to look at her.

“Heard you crying last night,” she says. Casually, like she’s commenting on the weather. Arthur ducks his head.

“Sorry.”

she nods. “You don’t have to be sorry for crying.” still casual, her voice still even. He wonders if she’s using her poker face—the one that let her sit still while their father hit him. Or while a visiting noble tried to seduce her. 

Arthur wants to apologize again, but then Morgana would probably hit him or tell him off. Instead he asks, “how are you doing?” because he really wants to know, he wants to know that she’s feeling good or safe or something positive, because for the first time in a while, he wants her to be happy. 

She tilts her head. “I'm good. Hey, are you scared of me?”

She’s always been direct, he can say that much. But now that he’s thinking about it, he thinks he might be. 

“Yes,” he replies, and stops. He has to clarify. He has to explain. “Only because you have so much power over me.”

Morgana stands up and gets a glass of water. “Merlin’s more powerful,” she says.

“Not like that.” Arthur turns his head away from her, so she can’t hear him. He knows she can hear him anyway. “you know all my weaknesses, you know? You grew up with me. We had the same father.”

She stops moving. They both know he’s not _just_ talking about being sired by the same man. He’s talking about everything else, about the way he would shout and order them around. The way he called Morgana horrible things. The hundreds of people they both let die at his hands.

“I tried to kill him once,” she says. “twice, actually. It’s really stupid, but I couldn’t really do it. I don’t know if I was worried about you or just my soul but I couldn’t kill him.”

Arthur laughs. “I tried to kill him too.”

Morgana nods. “Do you think you should have?”

“Do _you_?”

Morgana frowns. “Sometimes. But I don’t think that killing him would have undone anything that he did to us. Dead or not, he was a _horrible_ father. You can’t heal from that.” Her voice is still even, but Arthur can hear it almost break, her facade almost fall. 

“I'm sorry I let him talk to you the way he did,” Arthur says. It’s not really an apology. It’s a commiseration, he’s saying ‘here is the knife, I'm giving it to you handle-first, I'm promising I won’t use it against you’

Morgana flinches as if he’s just thrown a blow. He feels a bitter flash of empathy for her, and then feels almost sick because he _promised_ , for the second time over, that he wouldn’t hurt her, and here he is, breaking that promise, not even a week later. 

Her jaw tightens, she looks so much like the girl Arthur remembers, the one he used to spar with when she got bored of lessons. The one he used to stand with, despite everything. “I'm sorry he hit you,” she says, her voice still in that placid conversational tone, like she’s holding a shield up. “I'm sorry that I _let_ him hit you. I thought you could handle it. I was wrong.”

She’s putting down the shield. She’s handing him a glass of water. She’s setting down her weapons. It is, he thinks, the first time she’s apologized like this. She’s apologized for trying to kill him, for betraying him. She’s never apologized for this. Mostly because Arthur never brought it up. 

For such a long time it made him sick to think about. That somehow, despite all of his efforts, he wasn’t ever enough for his father. When things got bad enough between them, Morgana would use that to get under his skin. It used to make his blood boil, the way that she went against their blood-oath, but he had hurt her, too. They had both failed each other. 

He looks up, to the ceiling. He doesn’t want to look at her. “are we ever going to forget it?” he asks. His voice sounds smaller than he wants it to. 

She nudges him again. He doesn’t look at her. After a beat of silence, she says, “fifteen hundred years and _I_ haven’t forgotten. So I guess the answer is no.” Arthur sighs. She adds, “I still think we can heal, though.”

-

Arthur doesn’t ask Merlin to come to bed with him for at least a week. It’s not that he’s ashamed (he’s not, Pendragons don’t feel shame), but that he doesn’t want to inconvenience Merlin. He has his routines, his strict schedule. Arthur wouldn’t dream of messing with that. Not if he wants Merlin to keep helping with his chores. 

But he keeps thinking about it, the way that Merlin touched him. He’s never been touched like that before, so reverently and tenderly. For his whole life he was told that allowing someone to get close enough to touch you is _weak_. That he had to be wary of people getting too close, because you could never tell what they were going to do. 

It’s late enough that it isn’t weird that he and Merlin are getting drunk. Morgana is holed up in her room. She’s working on something, Merlin had said conspiratorially, but did not elaborate. So it’s just them, Merlin pouring him drinks and brushing their fingers together. 

Arthur gets up the nerve to ask him after his third drink. “do you remember when you slept in my bed?” he asks. Stupidly, because _of course_ Merlin remembers that. 

But Merlin takes it seriously, says, “yeah. Do you want to do that again, is that why you’re asking?” Arthur nods. Merlin grins. “You know you can just ask, right? Just say ‘Merlin do you want to sleep together?’ and I'll say—”

Arthur hits him. Merlin laughs, but sobers up and asks, “did you like it?”

Arthur can feel himself blushing. “I don’t think I've ever been that close to someone,” he says. Merlin’s eyes are wide. Like he’s drinking in every word. Arthur hasn’t felt _that_ in a long time. Of course, back in Camelot, plenty of people would listen to him talk like that, hanging onto every word. But it never felt this intentional. Those people were listening to Arthur the _prince_ . Merlin is listening to Arthur the _person_. 

Arthur continues. “I _really_ liked it. But I think that’s just because I really like you.”

Merlin smiles at that. He’s got a nice smile, Arthur thinks, and then thinks about kissing Merlin again. If maybe Merlin would kiss him back. If Merlin would let him touch his face. 

It’s funny, that he can remember ten years of Merlin serving him, pouring his drinks, running his baths, and everything in between, but none of that compares to the way he felt when Merlin wrapped an arm around him in his bed. It was all _intentional_ , he thinks, the way that Merlin allowed Arthur to place his trust in him. He’s been doing it forever, since their sunny days in Camelot, Arthur remembers.

But the way he touched Arthur in bed, the way he let Arthur kiss him, it was _different_ . Frightening, even, in the way Merlin let it happen so casually. Arthur knows— _knew_ —what love is supposed to look like. A man is supposed to protect his woman, he’s supposed to possess her in some way, hold power over her. Arthur doesn’t want to be possessed or protected, and it makes him a little sick to think about holding power over Merlin. 

He supposes he’s going to have to change the way he thinks about love, then. 

Merlin tilts his head, and Arthur’s really getting worried Merlin can read his mind, because he says, “I understand if you don’t want to— if you don’t want me to do anything about it.”

Arthur moves a little closer. He can feel the heat of Merlin’s skin through his clothes. He doesn’t know what he wants. Talking to Merlin about this is _weird_ , and it’s scary, and he doesn’t want to think about Merlin kissing him or doing anything more cause it makes him feel nervous. Like he has to get up and run, or get into a fight, just to have an outlet for the energy coursing through him. 

Of course, the natural outlet for that energy would be kissing Merlin. Which is also scary. He turns to Merlin and says, “I don’t know.” 

Merlin nods. “I figured,” he says, “it’s not easy to unlearn all of that.” Okay, so he _definitely_ can read Arthur’s mind. 

Arthur tries to direct his thoughts to Merlin, tries to convey, somehow, without words, that there’s some wires crossed in his mind, that somehow, whenever he thinks about men touching him it’s always cloaked in violence. The knights, deflecting emotional moments with well-timed shoulder punches, his father, striking him across the face while he schooled his face into a mask of detachment. He can’t think of a single time that a man touched him softly. 

There must be something of love in violence, he figures. Or is it the other way—something of violence in love? At least in the love of a man for another man. It makes him feel frightened, not of Merlin anymore, but of _himself_ , of the way that Merlin is getting thin, and if he ever pushed him too hard, he might break into pieces. 

Even now, he isn’t touching Merlin, really, even though they’re so close that Arthur can feel him breathing. 

It’s almost purposeful, the non-contact that Merlin’s giving him. It’s an offer, that he can wait as long as he wants, he can avoid this as long as he needs, because Merlin won’t touch him, and he dosen’t have to touch Merlin either. Doesn’t need to cross the boundary, doesn’t need to shatter anyone to pieces. 

But he can’t avoid it. He _needs_ to convey this to Merlin. He _needs_ to say it out loud. 

“I'm scared of you,” he says. Eyes trained on Merlin. When it hits him, Merlin flinches. Takes the confession like a punch to the stomach. Arthur wonders if he’s committing an act of violence, same as his father. If he is doomed, forever, to hurt the people he loves, doomed to tear things apart because of the fear that consumes him. 

He thinks about the cycle of violence, how his father taught him to be afraid, and then taught him how to hurt people. If, perhaps, despite all of his efforts, he is still going to hurt people. 

Merlin meets his eyes. “Okay.” he says. His voice, somehow, is steady. “I'll tell you now that I'm not going to hurt you. Not intentionally, at least. And if there’s anything I can do—”

“There’s not.”

Merlin takes it in stride, and continues, “if you’re scared then I can leave. You just have to ask.”

Arthur doesn’t want him to leave. He wants them both to stay here forever, detached from the world, detached from life and death and everything in between, free of worries. He wants to hear Merlin say he loves him for the rest of his life, he wants to lie in bed next to Merlin, not touching or being touched, he wants to be safe.

He can’t have all of that. He _knows_ this, and that’s what hurts most of all. Something has to give, he’s sure of it now. He doesn’t know if it will be him or Merlin yet. Merlin, at least, is offering, is holding out a hand and saying he’s free to go, even after everything. He _will_ give over, if Arthur asks. 

But Arthur’s tired of holding firm and letting everyone else lose. He thinks he can stand to take a risk, to let someone break down his walls. 

“No, I want you to stay,” he says. And, very deliberately, he puts a hand on Merlin’s knee. 

(fade to black)


	3. epilogue

The castle is bigger than Arthur remembers. He wanders through the halls, looking at the paintings of landscapes and villages. Ignoring the paintings of his father. When he looks up at one, the face is blurry. He can’t remember, he realizes. He’s forgotten what his father’s face looks like. 

He doesn’t like how that makes him feel. 

He’s not going anywhere in specific, but he thinks he’s circling around something. The throne room, he supposes, which has always felt like the heart of the castle. 

He’s in the circulatory system, he’s in the veins where people once pumped like blood. The castle, now, feels almost bled out — quiet, except for the sound of his feet. (Boots, he realizes. He looks down and he’s in his Camelot clothes, in his red tunic with a sword on his hip. He’s _back_.)

Then he sees Leon, stoic as ever. Waiting for him. 

Leon turns to him. “They’re in the throne room,” he says. It’s an offer. It’s an outstretched hand. 

Arthur closes his eyes and he is, somehow, in the throne room. By _they_ , it appears, Leon meant the knights. Elyan and Percival and Gwaine, Lancelot too, all turn to see him. They all gather around him, as if _he’s_ the dead one, as if _he’s_ the one who’s been resurrected. 

It’s great to see them again, it really is, and he embraces them each in turn, but he turns away, searches for a glimpse of Gwen, of Merlin. 

He goes through the door of the throne room and finds himself in his room. Gwen is there, standing with her hands folded in front of her. He’s barely gotten the chance to think about what to say before she wraps her arms around him. 

“It’s so good to see you,” she says warmly. 

When he can pull away from the embrace, Arthur says, “we need to talk.”

She smiles. “About Merlin. I knew this would come, one day.” 

Arthur puts an arm on her shoulder. She’s warm, in a comforting way. Her eyes are wide, dark. He thinks about love, and how it can take many forms. A king’s love for his people. A man’s love for his wife. A man’s love for his friend. He thinks Gwen can fit in somewhere between all three.

“I love you,” he says. “just not in the way I love Merlin.”

She closes her eyes. “I'm happy for you,” she says quietly, and Arthur thinks she’s telling the truth, that she _really_ is happy that he’s just told her that she’s been trumped by his love for his servant. 

Gwen presses a kiss to his cheek, softly, and he’s gone again, up to the top of the tower where Gaius’ rooms are. Gaius is bustling around, mixing potions or poultices or something else. The door at the top of the stairs is open. 

Arthur clenches his jaw and walks up. And, sure enough, Merlin is there. And then his head is spinning and they’re in a field of flowers, grasses tall enough that he can touch them without bending. 

Merlin looks over at Arthur. Arthur looks over at Merlin.

“Here we are,” Merlin says quietly. Gratefully, like Arthur is the one that brought them there. Arthur wonders if he should clarify that he isn’t in control here, he’s just going where this dream-vision is pulling him. 

But Merlin is smiling and walking over hesitantly, one arm outstretched. And Arthur reaches out and takes his hand. He’s warm still, but only in the way that a person should be warm. He’s no longer too hot or too cold, not burning up _or_ burning out. 

He squeezes Merlin’s hand and says, “Merlin, I'm- it’s good to see you. Good to be here.”

Merlin looks up, the sun making his face look warmer, softer. “Where is here, though?” he says, waving his free hand around at the field. He’s right, Arthur knows, they aren’t in Camelot really, or at least not a part of Camelot _he’s_ ever seen. 

Arthur closes his eyes. “I think we’re home,” he says. His voice is small, almost shaky, and he starts to feel ashamed before he pushes it down. He doesn’t need to be ashamed before Merlin. Not after everything they’ve been through. 

He hears a soft sigh. “I'm glad to be home, then.” 

They stay there for a while, not moving, just holding hands. Then Merlin takes a breath and says, “have you seen Morgana yet?”

“Have you?”

Merlin squeezes his hand. “She wants to see you,” he says. 

Arthur squeezes back. “And _I_ want to see _you_.” He means it, this time. He wants to keep seeing Merlin, he wants to blink and find himself in his rooms, Merlin still beside him. He wants to tell Merlin, over and over, how much he loves him. He wants Merlin to do the same. 

Merlin laughs a little. “then open your eyes, sire.” Arthur does, and they’re beside a lake, one that he only vaguely recognizes. Merlin shifts uncomfortably. 

This is where he died, he realizes. For the first time. 

Merlin doesn’t move. “Why here.” he says. It’s not really a question, more an accusation. For a second, Merlin sounds almost like Morgana, voice tight and sharp. 

“I'm sorry,” he says. Merlin leans away from him, still holding onto his hand. He’s still managed to hurt Merlin, even in this golden dream. Something isn’t right, he thinks. 

Another one for the books, another reason not to trust his heart or his mind or his hands. 

He watches Merlin’s jaw twitch. “I was so heartbroken when you died,” he says quietly. “and I didn’t heal for a really long time after. Not even when you came back. I had to—” 

He stops. Arthur stops too. The lake stretches out before them, and neither of them say anything. The wind blows, the sun shines down. 

Finally, Merlin continues, “but, you know, Morgana had it worse. Watching you come back and hate her over and over again. And every time you had to forgive her and she had to forgive you. It’s a miracle she didn’t hate you.”

“Didn’t she?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No. Of course she didn’t. You were her brother, Arthur. She loved you. And you hated her.”

Arthur feels a flash of something in his chest. He can see, in his mind’s eye, Morgana sitting in an empty room, waiting for forgiveness that wouldn’t come. He thinks about how much it hurts for someone you look up to, someone you look after to hate you. To turn on you, to try to kill you. He reaches for his vindictive joy— tries to feel glad that Morgana was paying retribution for her betrayal— but it doesn’t come. All he feels is a blunt and cold pity. 

He takes a step away from Merlin and their hands fall and then he’s in Morgana’s rooms. She’s sitting at her table, looking at him through her mirror.

She meets his eyes and he takes a step forward. Without moving, she says, “Arthur.”

He nods. Takes another step forward. He says, “Merlin says you want to see me?” 

She looks down so he can’t see her eyes anymore. “yeah.”

Arthur takes another step. “You know, I never hated you? All that time, even when you wanted me dead, even when you were right there trying to kill me. I just couldn’t _not_ see my sister. And all the time I wanted so bad for you to remember who you were. But I didn’t hate you. I understood you too much to hate you.”

He needs her to understand, he needs to take back whatever he did that made Morgana think he could ever hate her. Or, if he can’t take it back, he needs to fix it, he needs to make sure she never believes it again.

She turns around and looks at him. 

“Arthur,” she says. 

“I didn’t hate you,” he stutters out. 

There are tears in her eyes. Arthur thought this was heaven at first but maybe he was wrong, maybe it’s hell. Because it’s only in hell that he’d have to see Morgana’s carefully constructed walls break down. 

She still looks so regal, more kingly than he ever looked. Her voice is choked when she says, “I'm sorry Arthur, I'm so sorry.”

Arthur reaches out to her. She doesn’t move, so he gets closer, so he can put a hand on her shoulder.

Everything falls away, and they both fall and then they’re back in the throne room, golden light streaming in through the windows. There is no throne, Arthur realizes, only the round table, in the middle of the room. 

And there are the knights, _his_ knights, and there’s Gwen, and there’s _Merlin_ , and Morgana beside him. He closes his eyes and everyone is still there when he opens them. 

(credits roll)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the end. Thanks for sticking with this, and I hope you enjoy the send off I gave these characters. I've loved this show for probably five or six years, and somehow this is the first fanfiction I've written about it.


End file.
